To publish this rubbish
I sink further into
You, who understands such cryptic babble
You, who drives me hard, down rough, scortched highways
In dead-night horror
With a blanket wrapped so forbodingly over head
No pedesrtians to frighten as we grind our teeth past
No such thing as an innocent bystander
We're all guilty of witnessing
We're each guilty, predisposed
Behind the wheel
Behind trees we hide
Beyond the horizon you shall charge
With me, as your torch-in-hand
To burn the monster, in it's lair
So we shall burn ourselves like a monk in protest
The monster in ourselves
And it was born to die
© Copyright 2016 devilrod. All rights reserved.
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